


But You'll Have To Have Them All Pulled Out After the Savoy Truffle

by HarveyWallbanger



Category: Twin Peaks
Genre: Disturbing Themes, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-23 07:07:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8318569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: I feel your taste all the time we're apart.





	

**Author's Note:**

> While I wouldn't go so far as to call this story non-con, there are consent issues, the nature of which will become clear as the story progresses. If you, Dear Reader, have a sensitivity to anything of the like, just don't read this story. As always, use your discretion.  
> The title of this story and the quote in the summary come from the song, The Savoy Truffle, by the Beatles.  
> I am not involved in the production of Twin Peaks, and this school is not involved in the production of Twin Peaks. No one pays me to do this. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.

When foxes hunt, they do it by charming. That's how Harry saw it referred to in a book. Once, he actually watched it happen. Out in a field, Harry spied a fox, which had spied a mouse. Instead of simply running up and grabbing it, the fox had approached slowly, from a distance, jumping and chasing its tail, looking for all the world like an innocent creature enjoying itself. At first, Harry thought that the animal was rabid and had lost its reason. Then, for a brief, sparkling moment, that he'd found something enchanted, something out of a storybook. Maybe all of nature was like this: whimsical and gentle, as long as there were no humans around. Just as transfixed as Harry, the mouse had stilled, not moving even as the fox drew closer, and closer.  
When he fox clamped down its jaws, Harry gasped, making his presence known. The fox gave him what he imagined to be a reproachful look, and trotted off, the mouse between its teeth.  
Why Harry thinks of this, now, he doesn't know. He's watching Dale order at the counter. They're at the Double R. For coffee. No reason. Just because. There's no place else in particular to go. No place that can't wait. It's the middle of the afternoon, that weirdly quiet time between midday and evening, when there's still work to be done, but no one really feels like doing it. The Spanish call it “siesta”, and take off the hours from two to five. Maybe they know something that no one else knows.  
No siesta for the wicked, though, in Twin Peaks. Just coffee. Since Dale arrived, Harry's started taking it black, because Dale does. He doesn't have the heart to tell Dale that black coffee's always been like drinking ashes to him. For the moment before he actually tastes it, though, when it's just the scent and Dale's satisfaction over his own cup, Harry believes that this time, it will be different. This time, he'll solve the mystery, and know the ecstasy that Dale does.  
What he gets is the same slightly burnt taste as always. He looks at Dale, lost in his pleasure. Harry smiles, feeling suddenly warm.  
“Remember what we discussed, the other day, about giving yourself a present?” Dale asks.  
“How could I forget?”  
“Well, I have a suggestion for today's.”  
“Oh, what's that?” Harry can't keep the amusement out of his voice.  
“An afternoon walk in the woods,” says Dale, as though he's making a sales pitch.  
“Well, all right, then.” It feels good to give in.  
“All right,” Dale repeats, smiling into his coffee.  
Harry's driving, but he gets the distinct feeling that he's being lead. Lured, maybe, he suddenly thinks, but that's ridiculous.  
“Pull over here,” says Dale, as though he'd been waiting for this specific place, but couldn't have known it until he saw it.  
Dale gets out of the car, and breathes in deeply, stretching out his arms.  
“Lead the way,” says Harry, a rebuke to his earlier wariness.  
When the shade of the trees becomes sapphire broken with gold, Dale takes his hand. It feels so good to touch Dale that it only occurs to Harry as an afterthought that he shouldn't be doing this. That, as innocent a gesture as it is, it's still on the wrong side of propriety. But this is the forest. No one can see anything but the trees. And whatever else they might do, the trees don't tell tales.  
There's pleasure in being lead, as well as in giving in.  
Dale leans against a tree, and pulls Harry into him.  
“Dale,” Harry says warningly, trying not to sound shocked. He can't be shocked. It's an advance in the literal sense: a step forward. An inevitable one.  
But Dale is smiling. Sunlight through the winter shadows.  
“Dale,” Harry says again, more softly.  
“What, Harry?” he says, still smiling.  
Harry doesn't know how to answer.  
“You want me,” Dale says. It's less a declaration than a command.  
Harry swallows. “How do you know that?”  
“I see how you look at me,” Dale says, his voice low as he tilts his head back, “I can smell it on you.”  
“Josie,” Harry says. It even sounds desperate to him.  
Dale smiles. “We both have black hair. We're about the same height. In the dark, from behind, you probably couldn't tell the difference.”  
Somewhat frantically, Harry looks around. “Not here,” he scoffs.  
“Yes, here.”  
“What? No.”  
“Yes,” Dale repeats.  
How did Harry's hands find Dale's waist? “No,” he says. He's looking at Dale's mouth.  
“Yes,” says Dale, and Harry can't do his part in the back and forth, because Dale kisses him.  
As do all things with Dale, it feels good. His mouth is softly seeking, inviting, pressing. His hands are on Harry. Holding him down. Though, it's Harry who has Dale against the tree. Dale shakes aside his tie, opens his collar, and Harry kisses his neck. The sounds he makes are the ones Harry's heard before, over coffee, or donuts, or pie. Does this mean that Harry's going to be consumed?  
Before Harry realizes what's happening, Dale turns him, so that it's now his back to the tree. He hits it with a solid huff that makes Dale laugh. Still laughing, he undoes Harry's pants, licks the palm of his hand, and slips it inside.  
“I told you you wanted me,” Dale says, eyes dark and glittering beneath lowered lids.  
Harry can't say anything. Not then, when Dale's caressing him idly, making Harry move with him, his eyes on Harry's, Harry unable to look away. Not when he kneels, and goes down on Harry, sucks him with agonizing patience, as though he could do this forever. It might go on forever. Harry's not even sure he'd mind. He can't stop saying Dale's name, until it no longer sounds like a real word. It's just sound, lost in the forest, which has no language. He comes, his hand on the back of Dale's head. He lets go, hears Dale spit onto the forest floor.  
When he can speak again, Harry asks, “What now?”  
Brushing off the knees of his pants, Dale stands. “Now, you're going to take me to my room at the Great Northern, and fuck me until I beg you to let me come.”  
“I don't know if I can move.”  
“Sure you can. You know the way, Harry,” Dale says, stands to the side, and watches Harry cover himself.  
Even if he knows the way, Harry doesn't know how they get there. He's dimly aware of his body, of its existence, but beyond the pounding of his heart, an island in the waves, it's like a river, diffuse, flowing away from him. It must be that he's still being lead. Through the lobby, and upstairs, and into Dale's room.  
“What if someone saw us?” Harry asks belatedly.  
Dale gives him an indulgent smile. “Then, they'll think, There goes Sheriff Truman with that FBI agent. They must be going to work on the horrible murder of that nice young girl that has us all so worried.”  
Before Harry can protest somehow, Dale kisses him.  
“You want to see me naked, don't you?” Dale whispers against Harry's lips.  
“God, yes.” It does no one any good to pretend anymore.  
“You can tell me if I'm anything like your girlfriend,” Dale says- bitterly, Harry wants to think, but there's no bitterness, there. Just something bright and shallow, like a glass held up to light. Just Dale's dazzling smile. Harry shivers. He takes off his jacket as Dale takes off his coat. He watches Dale undress. In Harry's arms, the warmth of Dale's skin is magnified. He almost asks if Dale is feverish. His kiss scorches. His hand up the back of Harry's shirt is like a brand. The heat of his hand between Harry's legs is barely diminished by the cloth separating flesh from flesh.  
He gets Dale on the bed, kisses him everywhere. Dale's skin remains pale, bloomless, except where Harry bites him experimentally. There, a rash of rose erupts.  
“Is that okay?” Harry asks.  
“Yes,” Dale exhales, “Do that again.”  
Then, “Take off your clothes.”  
Harry'd forgotten that he's still dressed. Suddenly, though, it's unbearable.  
“That's better,” Dale says when Harry's naked against him.  
Then, “How do you want me?”  
Harry blinks.  
“How do you want to fuck me? Do you want me from behind? So you can pretend I'm someone else?”  
“Dale-”  
“Do you want me on my back? Do you want to look at me while you're fucking me? Do you want me on top? Do you want me to ride you?”  
“I like you like this just fine,” Harry says.  
Dale smiles. “On my back, then.”  
“Yeah.”  
“You do want to look at me.”  
“Yeah,” Harry says.  
“Good. I want you to watch me come.”  
Dale has lubricant, but no condoms. Harry almost says something, but can't bring himself to. It's almost as though talking about something dangerous will make it come to pass. Say nothing, and you're invisible to it.  
Under him, Dale twists and moans. This isn't him. It's not Dale as Harry knows him, that is. Maybe that's why they used to say “to know” to mean “to fuck”. You don't know someone until you're inside of them. Even just like this. What Harry now knows is that Dale likes the bitter with the sweet. More fevered kisses as Harry fucks him, Dale's fingers pressing into his hips. Tomorrow, they'll both have bruises. Dale, a few more. This must be how Dale's always been. Harry just couldn't see it from the outside. Maybe he can't see it at all, but only feel it. In the thrum and tension of Dale's body. A fevered grip that hurts like a bruise. Blood forced into aching flesh.  
He does watch as Dale comes, Dale's head whipped to the side, his face contorted as though in pain.  
“I didn't hurt you, did I?” Harry asks, feeling foolish.  
Serenely, Dale smiles, “If I told you you had, would you stop?”  
Before he can answer, Dale shakes his head. “No,” Dale whispers, “keep going,” with his hands on Harry's hips. He moves with Harry. He holds Harry against him.  
“I'm going to-” Harry begins, but Dale holds him even more tightly. It's too late to stop, or to pull Dale's hands away. There's pleasure in giving in. For a moment scrubbed of reason, Harry imagines that it's not going to end, that he's going to feel this way forever. Surely, he'd die. His body would break, from the inside out. The terror of that, must bring it to a close. Like a spell being broken. So that he's spit out into the soft post-orgasmic swell, shaking and breathing heavily. He kisses Dale.  
“Did you feel the earth move?” Dale asks.  
“Something like that,” Harry says, feels himself smile, “What about you?”  
“Oh, yes,” Dale says, lets go of Harry.  
“I could stay,” Harry offers.  
“You could,” says Dale, “but I could use some sleep, and I don't think I'd get much of that with you here.”  
Harry frowns.  
“Don't be glum, Harry. We'll do it again sometime when I'm not dead on my feet.”  
“Okay, then.”  
“All right.”  
Harry cleans up, gets dressed, leaves Dale putting on his pajamas. Half-dressed, Dale gets up, walks Harry to the door, kisses him. “Don't be a stranger,” Dale says, and lets Harry out. Closes the door.

You have to stop sleeping in the afternoon. Your slumber is less than restful, animated with dreams that leave you feeling like a spent match. In the dream, Harry's on top of you, saying your name. Your body moves, but not under your control. Yet, you know that you wanted to be here. You want Harry to do these things to you. You dream of his mouth on you. You can almost feel where it was, like a stain. The roughness of his hand between your legs. Fingers pressing into you. He's inside of you. You feel bruised, on the inside, as though just the fact of dreaming it's hurt you.  
You're in your pajamas, though, and in your dream, you were naked. That proves it was a dream. Why wouldn't it be?  
Your watch says that it's six. Six what? A call downstairs to Reception tells you that it's six p.m..  
Your clothes are folded on a chair. When you pick them up, the smell of the fir trees rises from them.  
What can it all mean?

* * *

There's more than one way into a room at The Great Northern. Where the body can't go, the gaze finds a way to enter. The walls are perforated in places, at just the right height for someone small. If she stands on her toes. Silently, Audrey replaces the wood panel over the eye holes. She turns around, and presses her back against the wall. One arm around her middle, she raises the other hand to cover her mouth. The whole world must be able to hear her breathing, from between the walls. They'll think that the hotel is haunted. Her heart is pounding, so she, at least, knows that she's not a ghost. She looks around, though she knows that there's no one there. As she runs down the corridor to the passage's entrance, she doesn't look back.


End file.
